


glitter wonderland

by cardist



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Drama, Glitter, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardist/pseuds/cardist
Summary: In a stroke of genius, Eames decides to dive into Arthur’s wintry dreamland after breaking up with him. Things get a little messy, but that’s mostly because of the glitter.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24
Collections: Secret Saito 2020





	glitter wonderland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IAmANonnieMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/gifts).



> For [IAmANonnieMouse](ao3.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse)
> 
> Prompt was: "Glitter"
> 
> I was told I could go to town with angst or crack, and it's probably clear from this fic that I couldn't decide which to go with. Happy holidays!
> 
> And Many many thanks to Q for the beta! Also thank you to Mikka for a read of my first draft + bouncing ideas!!

Eames takes in the view.

It’s the beginning of spring in December. Though the city before them is covered in sleet, the trees are adorned with waking buds, and the air smells like rain. 

_Arthur’s already thinking about the end of winter._

“This is pushing it,” Cobb warns. Eames dismisses him and gestures for Yusuf to set up the PASIV. They’re lying low behind a barricade after gunning down a couple of heavily-armed projections who are now sleeping in pools of fresh blood.

“And stupid,” Cobb huffs as he checks for ammo.

Cobb isn’t wrong, but for Eames, ever since Inception, two-level extractions on regular folk have become something of a joke. This, on the other hand, is challenging. This is invigorating. This is what dreams are made of.

“Pot, kettle,” Eames says, referring to all the stupid jobs Cobb had dragged his team into since days of yore.

“You know, I’d rather this too. It’s safer. I think,” Yusuf remarks sheepishly. 

Yusuf doesn’t know Arthur well enough.

Cobb does something between an exhale and a sigh in lieu of proper rhetoric. He then asks, offhandedly, “Eames, I meant to mention earlier. Have you, by some chance, been teaching my daughter inappropriate mafia jargon?”

Eames turns around to study Cobb. Cobb seems serious.

“Heaven forbid,” Eames answers. 

Judging by Cobb’s immediately impatient expression, it’s not the right answer.

But before Cobb can reply, the IV line stirs. The Somnacin hits them like a roller coaster, and they go under.  
  
  
  


* * *

Eames doesn’t forge anyone. He doesn’t change a single hair. It’s probably not the easiest way, but somehow it feels like the right one.

He crosses his fingers, and goes for broke.  
  
  
  


* * *

They’re three layers down now, but they still haven’t found the mark.

“Is Arthur even connected to the PASIV?” Eames says, impatient.

No one responds. Cobb stands around with his meaningless debonair look and peers out the window of the abandoned warehouse with contemplative eyes. Yusuf is examining the rusty walls; he mentioned earlier that they look familiar.

“Pippa’s been calling me Don Cobb and threatening household objects,” Cobb says. And then, with a hint of annoyance, “You seriously need to get your shit together with Arthur. I need my pointman back.”

“You need your babysitter back,” Eames concludes.

“I needed him yesterday,” Cobb says.  
  
  
  


* * *

Eames doesn’t miss many things. Perhaps it’s a part of his job not to — it’s hard getting attached to something when everything is constantly changing, when he is constantly changing.

And it has defined his way of life.

It means that he has to get used to losing a favourite watch. It means no saying goodbye after a job; it means no looking back.

It means not to cry when he loses a friend.

It means no soulmates. No three-word secrets.

He told this exact philosophy to Arthur once. After sex, at a five-star hotel with a view of skyscrapers and dusky mist.

Arthur hadn’t batted an eye. “Rather roundabout way to say you’re scared of commitment. Also not very romantic. Did you want a second round or can I shower?”  
  
  
  


* * *

They finally find him in a wooded corner of dream level two. (Yes, they had to go back up a level. He was that hard to find.)

From the top of a nearby cliff, they can see Arthur standing on the patio of a cozy-looking cottage that Eames suspects was part of his childhood. A close relative’s winter chalet, perhaps?

However, it’s also armed with several faceless bodyguards. Very Arthurian.

“We’re never going to find out what he wants for Christmas, are we?” Yusuf says.

“I wouldn’t say it’s Inception levels of improbable but,” Cobb says and then nods. He takes a seat on the edge of a boulder and looks at Eames expectantly.

Eames summons an ugly knit sweater onto himself. It has clashing colours (the holiday green and red palettes that Arthur abhors), nauseating patterns, and a crocheted Olaf dead centre.

Yusuf grimaces. “I’m not sure--”

“He’s going to break up with you again on account of that sweater,” Cobb cuts in. 

“Excellent,” Eames replies. 

He smiles, then departs, sliding down the slope, snow hushing behind him.  
  
  
  


* * *

Eames is unable to pinpoint when exactly it all started.

With time, there are things he is willing to admit, however. He likes Arthur’s dimples, for instance. And his ties. The lines across his forehead, the brown of his eyes. The way he talks, how he holds a fountain pen, the way sunlight softens on his skin.

There’s a framed photo on Arthur’s desk of the whole team working together on Inception in the workshop. Both he and Eames have their backs to the camera. Ari is wearing something red - or orange - Saito, something expensive, Cobb, something unmemorable. The photograph had been taken by Yusuf.

Eames has always wondered if it meant something. That Arthur kept that picture.  
  
  
  


* * *

“You’re not meeting my parents wearing that,” Arthur says when Eames arrives at the dream chalet. Arthur pushes him away from the doorway. There’s mistletoe hanging over it.

“I’m not?” Eames replies, trying to keep calm. “Why? Will you be taking it off?” 

“Don’t flirt.” Arthur doesn’t meet his eye. 

Eames scratches his neck. The projections haven’t attacked him yet, and he’s still wondering why. “Your parents, is that right? Where are we?”

“Truckee, California.”

Eames looks up at the mistletoe again, and in the spur of the moment, decides to pull Arthur in by the forearm and kiss him. 

Arthur tries to push away at first, but then he closes his eyes and melts into it. For a moment, it’s sweet. They never kiss like this.

“Winter cabin,” Arthur adds, when they break apart. Arthur’s still not looking at him.

Eames smiles sadly. “What do I tell them?”

“What do you mean?”

“About us.”

Arthur finally looks at Eames. He seems worse for wear, but his eyes tell a story that Eames is unable to decipher.

“You okay?” Eames asks.

Bright flakes start to fall on the back of his hand. Eames glances up, and realizes it’s snowing. 

Strangely though - it’s snowing glitter.

“Where are we, pet?” Eames asks again, because suddenly the air changes, and it’s not just Truckee, California. It’s not just a chalet. It’s not just a wintry view.

Arthur looks up at the woods that surround them. It’s eerily quiet. 

There’s glitter everywhere.

“My parents’ safehouse,” Arthur murmurs. He turns to look at Eames, and it’s clear at that moment that Arthur knows he’s dreaming, and that Eames is an intruder. 

“It’s the last place I saw them,” Arthur says.  
  
  
  


* * *

Waves of projections swarm in after Eames, with Cobb and Yusuf in tow, and they get caught in the riptide. Arthur’s disappeared into the cabin.

When Eames shoots the faceless men, rainbow glitter gushes from their guts and scatters into the air. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen, and he’s never been this terrified in his whole life from such a ridiculous, incomprehensible dream detail.

“I don’t think I’m grasping this... metaphor,” Yusuf says, when they jump under a rock, hiding and catching their breaths.

“A break-up within a break-up,” Cobb mumbles, running his fingers through his hair. “Fucking novel.”

Eames tries to refute Cobb but finds himself at a loss of words. Because what the bloody fuck is even going on?  
  
  
  


* * *

Cobb wakes up dying from the storm, Yusuf from toxic glitter inhalation, and Eames from an avalanche of glitter.

* * *

Arthur’s seat is cold when they wake up.

“That was… riveting,” Yusuf says, patting his lap absently as he stands up. 

Cobb runs his hand through his hair and then shoves Eames into a wall, holding him by the collar. “Were you even fucking trying?”

It hurts to think that people he’s worked so close with for so long don’t seem to understand that he’s just as confused too. Sure, he could have tried a little harder, but Cobb is overreacting and a fucking hypocrite.

Ariadne walks in from behind Eames, and she breaks them apart. Cobb still has that murderous glint in his eyes, but he backs off and keeps a distance, his hands up in reluctant surrender.

“What happened here?” Ari asks. She eyes the PASIV.

No one answers.  
  
  
  


* * *

“Remember the walls of that warehouse in you-know-who’s dream?” Yusuf asks Eames. It’s Christmas Eve, and Arthur really shouldn’t be working them this hard, but here they are, doing research in library archives old as time. The only one who was able to opt out was Cobb, because he has kids back home. Arthur is hunting for blueprints elsewhere.

Ariadne looks up from her book and scowls. “He’s not even here.” 

Yusuf scratches his cheek. “Right, sorry, force of habit.” 

Eames leans back into his armchair. “What about them?”

“Well, wasn’t I saying they looked familiar? The picture on Arthur’s desk that I took of the Inception workshop — they’re the exact same. Just noticed the other day when I had to get a file from him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Eames replies breezily. 

“Are you getting Arthur anything?” Yusuf asks.

“I’m not getting him a familiar wall, if anything.”

“I think I get what you’re getting at, Yusuf,” Ari chimes in. “You said he dreamed of the winter cabin in California his parents used to stay at, right? And then the warehouse walls… I mean… If you think about it, Arthur has unconsciously dreamed of two locations he associates with family.”

Eames ruminates on the idea as Yusuf and Ari continue to discuss, getting stuck later on trying to interpret the enigmatic glitter storm.

“Loosen up, Eames. You’re not like yourself. It’s Christmas Eve,” Ari says, before she leaves with Yusuf to go get refreshments.  
  
  
  


* * *

It’s not that Eames doesn’t like Arthur. The problem is that they’re the type of people who can’t seem to be on the same page for anything, despite the irresistible attraction they have for one another. They fight, they have sex, they fight again, have sex, fight over dinner, over worldviews, the definition of freedom, have sex again. The cycle never seems to end.

There are almost just as many things Eames hates about Arthur that he absolutely loves too, and sometimes things get blurry, like the way he can’t decide whether he hates or loves Arthur’s fastidiousness. Whether he likes or dislikes the way Arthur gets when he’s angry at Eames.

“Privacy violation. That’s what I’m mad about,” Arthur says. It’s not so much anger in his voice as visceral hurt, but he still slams the door in Eames’s face.

“Just wanted to know what to get you for Christmas—” Eames shouts. 

“You could have just asked,” responds Arthur, muffled through the door. “Not that I believe that was your actual motive because what the fuck, last I checked, we don’t get each other presents. Also, fuck off already!” 

“There’s a first for everything,” Eames replies weakly. He starts pacing a little bit in front of the door, a gift bag hanging from his forearm. “And for your information, I did get you something.” 

Arthur opens the door, face inscrutable. 

For a moment they just stand there in silence.

“Well?” Arthur prompts. “I haven’t got all day.”

Eames scratches his cheek, feeling a little embarrassed. He hands Arthur the present. 

Arthur barely glances inside, but there’s a look in his eyes that reminds Eames of winter. 

“I’m sorry,” Eames says. 

He means it. 

Arthur leans against the doorframe, and it’s clear his defences are a little bit more relaxed, but he says, “this isn’t how it’s going to work.”

Eames bites his lip and lowers his gaze. “Okay.”

“I need some time, so if you would kindly fuck off now.”

Eames nods. 

Arthur shuts the door. 

The ball’s in someone’s court, but Eames can’t figure out whose, and it’s driving him crazy.  
  
  
  


* * *

Eames analyzes the dream again and again, until the night turns into day, until the sun’s waning in a lazy Sunday afternoon sky, until Christmas is almost over, gone for another year.

Saito gets Cobb a custom-made Rubik's cube; Yusuf gets Ari a glass chess set; Cobb gets Yusuf a rock that’s supposed to be some rare earth element he had to commit morally-grey-area deeds to obtain; Ari gets Saito a fun whiskey decanter she suggests he makes a totem out of, which leaves Eames and Arthur’s secret santas as each other.

Everybody cheers and talks over wine and cheese, summarizing the year, making some early resolutions for the next.

Arthur doesn’t show up on account of finishing up some recon tasks, but he does surprise Eames later on, right outside his hotel room as the clock is about to strike 11:59.

“Arthur?” Eames mutters. He was about to leave to take a stroll.

Arthur straightens his back and gives Eames a rather nervous look, one that looks like he’s about to fuck up a speech he’s rehearsed a million times in front of a mirror. 

And so he does.

“Shit,” Arthur says before throwing himself onto Eames and smushing their lips together. Eames catches Arthur by the waist, mostly a knee-jerk reaction and not exactly intentional. But Arthur doesn’t protest, only keeps kissing, so Eames closes his eyes and focuses on the points where their bodies meet. 

Lips, nose. Fingertips, side of the hip, thigh, knee.

It’s funny how it feels like the first time they’re kissing. He raises a hand to brush Arthur’s cheek and deepens the kiss, wordlessly asking for more.

Arthur tastes pleasant.

When they break apart, Arthur looks a little flushed, and it almost robs Eames of any other thought. 

“You got me a fucking glitter snow globe,” Arthur says in an accusatory tone. “With a picture of the team stuck in the middle.” 

Eames tries to think of a response, but he doesn’t get the time to because all he wants is to kiss Arthur once more. Arthur has other plans and starts speaking again.

“You break up with me, intrude my dreams, and get me the tackiest gift in the world,” Arthur shoots off. “Just. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Eames smiles tightly. “You opened the gift.”

“I would have thrown it out the window if it wasn’t hazardous to pedestrians below.” 

“You didn’t throw away my gift.” Eames sounds much more relieved than he intends.

Arthur scoffs and then exhales slowly, smiling. He steps aside, gives Eames one last look before inviting him in.  
  
  
  


* * *

They don’t have sex, though they almost do. Eames had stopped midway saying, “we need to talk,” and Arthur had kissed him just a little longer before agreeing and letting go of Eames’s tie. Eames falls back onto the pillow, and Arthur sits up next to him.

“You wanted to introduce me to your parents,” Eames starts.

“They’re dead,” Arthur responds shortly. He tucks his legs to his chest. “It’s too late for that.” 

“But you dreamt it,” Eames says.

“The dream didn’t mean anything,” Arthur bites his lip. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want to talk about—”

“I would have said I was your boyfriend,” Eames cuts in.

Arthur looks a little startled.

“I would,” Eames adds. “And I would have meant it.”

Arthur runs his hand through his hair. It’s dishevelled. “It doesn’t… mean anything. They aren’t here anymore— and you’re— I don’t— shit.”

Eames sits up. “Hey. Why do you keep denying everything you want?” 

“Who says anything about— fuck you,” Arthur snaps. “What do you even want?”

Eames stares at Arthur, and in that infinitesimal moment, realizes he’s out of things he’s willing to say out loud. But he’s balanced on the edge of the razor and if he tips over just a little, maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to tell Arthur everything.

That he hates-loves Arthur’s rigid professionalism and his indomitable gravitas. That he finds Arthur’s enthusiasm for paradoxes charming, that he thinks Arthur’s winning smile is absolutely out of this world, that he actually likes this game of rivalry, the push-and-pull, the undeniable gravity, the friction between them, their incompatibility that makes them who they are.

Just maybe, he’ll be able to tell him that Arthur is what he wants. 

“I want many things,” Eames ends up saying.

Arthur doesn’t even roll his eyes. “That makes things so much clearer—”

“I want to be with you,” Eames says, and fuck, is that his heartbeat? Is this what a heart attack feels like?

Arthur blinks. “What?” He looks mildly affronted at first, but then it slowly sinks in.

“I want you,” Eames says, quietly.

Arthur takes a moment but then breaks into a smile. “You know, I don’t know if I heard that clear enou—”

Eames scoffs. “Just kiss me, pet.”

Arthur dimples and does as he’s told.  
  
  
  


* * *

They’re bickering again the next morning, over this and that, mostly things to do with Pippa’s re-education, how she has designated Arthur as the consigliere instead of Eames because she deems Arthur as the more responsible one, or how Arthur got Eames absolutely nothing for Christmas.

But things feel different this time.  
  
  
  
When the team disperses, Arthur walks a little closer to Eames. It takes Eames a few minutes to realize maybe Arthur wants to hold hands. He interlaces their fingers, half expecting to have his head chewed off because they never hold hands and somehow this feels too cheesy and pedestrian, but Arthur doesn’t do anything. Instead he looks up and says, without much context: “You had glitter on your nose that day.”

Eames frowns, and then rubs his nose.

“No, I mean, that day when we broke up or something, and you had to babysit Pippa. You were decorating Cobb's Christmas tree,” Arthur continues. He then looks up at Eames and smiles briefly.

“Oh.” 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about brushing it off,” Arthur says. “But we’d just fought. It didn’t seem appropriate. You had fucking glitter, I had unsorted feelings. God, it drove me mad.”

The wind whispers as it passes them, and there’s snow riding their coattails.  
  
  
  
It’s in the next moment that Eames understands that that was the closest he’s getting as a I want you too from Arthur. At least for the time being.

He looks down at the snowy pavement and smiles.


End file.
